Lords Of The Dark Fall - Fabian

by C A Nicks

  From the window, she saw him making his way towards the wood-stack at the side of the barn, select two sturdy logs and lift them experimentally. A deep breath lifted his shoulders. He let it out slowly and hoisted the logs, arms rigid and straight at his sides. Back at the stove, she poured out two mugs of tea and then took them out onto the porch. Fabian held his position, a look of calm concentration on his face. She watched him for a good five minutes before his arms showed the slightest hint of a tremble.

  “Tea,” she said in as cheery a voice as she could manage. So hard watching the man you loved preparing for a battle he might not win. How could she not worry about him?

  “Do you have anything heavier I might lift?” He threw down the logs in disgust. “I can hardly feel these.”

  “There’s a metal plough-head in the barn. Be careful though, it’s sharp. And there are some sacks at the back. You can fill them with sand and maybe carry them around? They don’t come with a safety warning.”

  Oblivious to her attempt at levity, he made his way purposefully to the barn. Didn’t look as if he would grow a sense of humour in her lifetime. A shame. She liked hearing him laugh.

  He came out of the barn holding the plough-head. With a two-handed grip, he hefted it above his head and locked his arms tight. After a few moments she had to look away. There wouldn’t be much left of him if that thing fell on his head. A tight knot formed in her chest.

  From now on, for every moment and every day it would only get worse and she’d be stuck doing what women do best. Smiling through the worry, but worrying all the same. As if it could magically keep him alive.

  This time next month he could be dead.

  They may not be destined to be together, but she could survive knowing he was out there somewhere, living a life. Sipping her tea, she sneaked a quick look under her lashes. Muscles taut, face locked in a mask of concentration, he could be one of the stone statues adorning the popular square in town. Ironically, they were said to be thousands of years old, too. From the pre-war days, built by a civilisation long gone.

  Milly, one of the farm cats, ambled across the yard. Fabian had been an endless source of fascination for the feral creatures who turned up at will to clear the barn of rats before disappearing for weeks on end. She sat, tail tucked about her, solemnly watching him flex his biceps, using the plough as counter-balance. He’d cleared a hundred reps before the cat got bored and wandered over to the porch to say hello.

  Tig crouched to stroke the silky fur, her eyes never leaving Fabian. He was on the ground, now, muscles straining, pushing up and down with astonishing speed. Paying her no heed, which was as it should be. A man on a mission had no time for small talk.

  “Tea’s on the porch-rail,” she reminded him. “Don’t let it get cold.”

  Again, no response. Okay, she took the hint. Time to get back to work, anyway. Now Hal knew about Fabian, no need to pretend he didn’t exist. Fabian would adorn her story plates with his full likeness and the world would never forget him. Limited runs at first of exclusive collector’s pieces and then a run of cheaper pieces for the masses.

  This could make her reputation as an artist.

  After toasting a piece of bread and drizzling it with honey, she freed the hens and then wandered over to her studio, covertly checking out Fabian on the way. Desperately in her head, trying to see him as the man she’d found in the desert and who she’d rescued with the hope of profit.

  In her studio, she studied the blueprint for the design and realised with a pang that she couldn’t do it. A fabulous commercial opportunity lay before her and she couldn’t bring herself to share it with a world who would never understand what they were seeing. In a battle between head and heart, the heart would always win. She would make only one, she decided. One set that would hang on her walls alone. She’d asked Fabian not to sell her out and she would do the same for him. There would be other stories, other opportunities. She would make something of herself without pimping out the soul of the man she loved.

  He was sitting on the porch steps, wiping at his dripping hair with the back of his hand. The mug of tea at his side. Already he looked bigger, muscles pumped from the exertion. His confrontation with Warrington would be talked about for generations to come.

  Picking up her sketch-pad, she closed her eyes and visualised his face, the set of his shoulders, the width of him. Then with broad, assured strokes, she began to draw. The study was nearly complete when she opened her eyes and noticed Fabian, massive arms folded, watching her with interest.

  “The subject is not here and yet the drawing is almost perfectly rendered. How do you do that?”

  “I see it in here,” she said, touching her head. “You get a lot more truth drawing like this.”

  “Did I tell you all this?”

  She heard the note of surprise in his tone as well as the wistfulness he couldn’t hide.

  “Yes,” she said. “Sometimes in words, other times in the way you walk, the way you talk. Only a fool wouldn’t see that you’ve held high office or dealt with the affairs of men. Presided over their lives.”

  “And their deaths.” He moved to stand beside her and she felt the heat of him, the solid wall he made between her and the outside world.

  Could make, she corrected herself. “Yes, Fabian. And their deaths. You said almost perfectly rendered?”

  He lifted a finger, touched the eyes, traced the line of the arm, the jewelled hand with infinite care as if trying to read what she’d put down on the paper. Or was he adding what she’d missed?

  Fabian tilted his head and squinted. “Here,” he said pointing to the eyes. “My mirror never showed me eyes like these.”

  “No, but if you looked now, it would.”

  She almost laughed at his appalled expression. He may not be able to see the compassion in his eyes, but she did, every time he looked at her.

  “It is a good picture, but you have not drawn the man I was.”

  “Who said I was trying to do that? Perhaps this is the man you could be?”

  For a moment she thought to have overstepped the mark. Fabian tensed visibly, every overworked muscle standing out in stark relief. Not very subtle, she knew and in all honesty, she had meant to attempt to capture something of the tyrant he was. But that man was no longer there and her fingers refused to co operate.

  “It’s not simply a fantasy, Fabian. I really see it. You have no idea how strong you’ll be when you find that man for yourself. When the fury of the storm battles the gentle rays of the sun, who wins?”

  He snorted. “I know this parable. Propaganda, nothing more. The heat of the sun can easily match the ferocity of the battering storm. It pays to remember that a tyrant can smile as well as any man. But know always that the smile never ever reaches his eyes.”

  “Oh, come on.” She refused to believe his stubborn line. “You must have loved your mother. Didn’t you look at her with those eyes?”

  “I don’t remember much of my mother. Her task was to dance attendance on my father. The children were brought up by nurses and tutors.

  “You want me to change them?” Damn him, let him have his tyrant eyes back if that’s what made him happy. Picking up her eraser, she kneaded it between her fingers to shape and warm it. To give him a chance to retract.

  “No,” he said after a long moment. “It fascinates me and I would study it. In my experience, leaders who show compassion are the first to fall.”

  “But they do it so graciously. And those who do manage to hold onto power do one heck of a good job. It’s the difference between fear and love. The obeisance you get from fear is an illusion. Get people to love you and they’ll go out and die for you. How many people have you know who would have died for you?”

  “I have had many champions over my long life. They have all died for me without question.”

  “But was it for gain? Or sacrifice?” It was as good a time as any to get this particular point across. This lesson would benefit him wherever he
ended up.

  “They lived in luxury. And no, I did not require that they love me, only that they die on behalf of my cause.”

  “And women?” She couldn’t help asking. “Apart from your mother, who I refuse to believe didn’t love you, did you ever truly win a woman’s love?”

  He frowned, obviously affronted. “My charm was legendary. Women would fight to the death for a night with me.”

  “So you keep saying, but did one ever die of love for you? Do you ever think how much more you could have been if you’d known this?” She pointed to the eyes, to the hint of a genuine smile on the lips. Turning to him, she reached up to cup his unshaven cheek. “If you do anything for me, then remember that people will love you, if you give them reason to. If you show them how. Good battle tactic, if nothing else.”

  And there were those eyes, and this time not looking at her from the drawing. Soft, compassionate eyes that gazed at her with something they were both stubbornly refusing to put into words.

  “You are saying I should conquer hearts rather than flesh? You wish me to pen Warrington an ode to his beauty rather than fight him? Somehow I don’t think that will sway him.”

  Now his eyes were sparkling with an unaccustomed mirth. The man did have a sense of humour after all. She couldn’t help laughing at the thought of Fabian and Warrington sparring with poetry instead of fists.

  “No, Warrington is one man you won’t be able to charm, that’s a given. I was thinking more of after.”

  The rasp of his beard scratched her palm. He took her hand and pressed it to his mouth. “When all those around wither and die and you do not, you soon learn not to give your heart. An immortal has no use for love.”

  “It isn’t much different for humans. Love doesn’t come with guarantees. It’s something you don’t always have a choice in. How did the training go?”

  “Terrible. I’ve lost condition. My mirror never showed me as slight as that figure in your drawing.”

  “Slight?” The man was easily twice as wide as her. With a hand on each shoulder, she traced the shape of him, the knot of muscle at his shoulder, the round bulge of his biceps. If she punched him in the stomach, she would probably break her fingers. “Slight is never a word I’d associate with you. But you’re more than a mountain of muscle. You have something far more important than this.”

  “Which is?”

  “Motivation and conviction. With that in place, half the battle is already won.”

  He did the same to her, starting at her shoulders, shaping her body with his hands. Sending her mind in directions it shouldn’t be going in the middle of so serious a discussion.

  “So small a package and yet so wise. Yes, if I could win by conviction alone, then victory would be assured.” Tilting his chin at the painting he said, “Immortalise me in art and verse so that your people may know a legend walked among them.”

  Walked? Again with the past tense. The band around her heart tightened a notch. Might as well get used to it. Worry would be a constant companion from now on.

  “I will. But only if you promise to survive. Wherever you end up, whatever you do, I need to know you’re alive. Can you do that for me?”

  “Oh, I intend to survive. You may count on that.”

  It was getting harder to hold back the tears. The last thing he needed to see. “Now, shoo,” she said unable to keep up the façade for much longer. “Go continue your training, or wash if you’re done for the day. I’ve work to do, can’t stand around talking.”

  She turned her back to give him the hint. And so she wouldn’t have to keep staring at his ripped torso. A grown woman going wobbly at the knees over a few muscles? She really did need to get out more.

  What if he didn’t survive? What would she do then?

  She would do what she always did and carry on. Glancing around the room, she took a quick inventory. Everything but the kiln was portable. She needed a bigger one anyway. New starts were good. Who knew what she would achieve when she gained her artist licence proper?

  Finally, Fabian took the hint and left her alone. Within minutes, she heard the rhythmic thwack of axe on wood. Hopefully he was splitting logs and not breaking down her barn. She’d felt his frustration, as he must have felt hers. The physical tension was so much easier to deal with than this mental torment.

  But deal with it they must. He didn’t want to stay. She couldn’t have him. It didn’t get much simpler than that. Outside, Fabian hacked away. He had the right idea. Crossing to her clay-bin, she lifted the lid and scooped out a rough lump. It hit the table with a thump and then she matched him blow for blow, working the clay until it formed a smooth, glossy ball. She could not spend the rest of her days thinking about him. Life had to go on.

  The clay just happened to fall into the shape of a head. With an experimental poke of her thumb, she made the depression of an eye. Added another. Pinched out a nose. She flew across the room and sorted through her wooden carving tools. Back at her bench, she pulled up a chair and bent over the face. Carefully, she formed a mouth, added detail to the eyes and nose. Dabbing on clay pellets, she modelled the cheek-bones and hair.

  There was always a moment when an inanimate lump of clay transformed and became something else. One moment she was modelling a lump of clay, the next Fabian’s head lay on the table, vacant eyes staring up at her.

  A death-mask? Oh god in heaven, it looked just like a death mask. Please don’t let this be a portent. Screwing up her fingers, she obliterated the features and then rolled the ball back into an anonymous lump of clay.

  The chopping sound had stopped and when she pulled back the curtain to check up on him, she started at the sight of Fabian standing at the side of the barn, eyes closed, palms raised in front of him as if in supplication. The red-chequered shirt along with his height flashed her back to a time her father would stand in the same spot and watch the ridge for her brothers’ return. He would never rest until his family were all safely within the boundary of the farm. God, how she missed them all.

  Fabian’s lips moved, as if in prayer. Unconsciously, she touched the image of the fish on her arm. She knew little of Fabian’s beliefs, save that he was exalted enough to have a personal deity and that, like her, he didn’t bother too much with regular worship. Seeing him pray reminded her that she ought to show her face at a church service soon or questions would be asked. The last thing she wanted was a visit from the pastor, who seemed to have decided lately that saving her soul would be his life’s work.

  Bringing his hands together, Fabian followed with a bow and then brought his joined hands to his forehead. She saw him laugh to himself and shake his head as if at some private joke. Around her, he’d done a good job of keeping up his guard, of showing her his warrior face. Rare for her to be able to study him unobserved. Did she imagine the slump of his shoulders, or was he tired from his training? Standing there, staring at the distant horizon, he looked immeasurably sad. A look she’d rarely seen on him.

  The slightest loss of focus, of doubt in his ability could be enough to see him killed.

  How did they play this? She knew only that Carson was dead, challenged and vanquished by one of his trusted elite guards. Had a formal challenge been issued or had Warrington seen an opportunity and chanced his arm? Had deals been struck with the different factions within the camp? Still too much they didn’t know about the current camp politics. Ignorance was dangerous.

  Knowing Fabian, he’d want his challenge formally announced. The fight to be a proper spectacle with a time and a place. He would fight by rules, unlike Warrington who would fight dirty and not lose a jot of sleep over it. For all his bluster, Fabian had lived a more sheltered life than he realised. He’d been bowed to and pandered to for the whole of his life. The man had no idea of his limitations. Not one of his court had dared best him in a fight.

  And worst of all, someone had seen his weakness, thrust home and left him with nothing. Not even the clothes on his back.

  So sure of his
victory and yet he’d been beaten once. He could be again.

  She let the curtain drop. Damn, this worry would be the death of her. To win he’d need something to fight for. Sure, he ultimately wanted to go home, but that was as yet some mythical place in a possible future. What he needed was something tangible, something now. Something he couldn’t afford to lose.

  His life? He’d already realised that mortality gave him an edge he’d not yet experienced. Was it enough? A crazy thought crossed her mind. Sure, people fought for their lives, but what if she upped the stakes? Would he fight for her?

  Back at her bench, she found a wire and cut the clay ball into four. Work was a good discipline and would stop her worrying. They still had to eat, although with Hal now in the mix the problem of supplies diminished. In the short-term, anyway. Staring at the balls of clay, she decided on a set of hand-painted buttons. Archaeologists raved about the pottery artefacts they dug up from the old civilisations. If she studied them carefully enough, she might even be able to fake a few finds of her own.

  If she stayed, she put herself in danger. That was a given. She risked falling into Hal’s clutches. She might even end up executed for supporting Fabian, if the worse came to the worse.

  Would it help or hinder him? Distract him or give him the extra edge he desperately needed?

  She rolled, kneaded, flattened and with the carving-tool traced an intricate pattern on each clay-button, her mind a jumble of thoughts that were proving impossible to force into some semblance of order. She loved the man and would stay for that reason alone. She’d sealed her fate the moment she decided to bring him home with her. Too late to detach from all this.

  She could talk all she liked about leaving him. She never would. Not until she knew he was safe.

  Chapter 14

  The extra food was helping. At last, the mirror reflected back a man he vaguely recognised. Fabian flexed his biceps, turning to inspect his back. This new leaner physique lent him different strengths. He was faster, more agile and since Warrington favoured fists and knife rather than axe and sword, these new strengths would serve him well.